


Malfoy’s Anatomy

by Novaa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Based on Grey's Anatomy, Creature Fic, Ensemble Cast, Getting Together, H/D Consent Fest, HP:EWE, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, St Mungo's Hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-03-26 01:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13846893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novaa/pseuds/Novaa
Summary: Healer interns are nothing short of a bunch of little children running around with wands and severed limbs, having inappropriate sex in inappropriate places. What's the worst that could happen, really?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heartfelt thanks to Tdcat for being such a thoughtful and thorough alpha-beta and a wonderful person. Many thanks to Carpemermaid and UchihaBloodline for their beta-read through, and to Restlessordinary for being a real life mediwitch who checked all things medical in this fic. And of course, cheers and thanks to the H/D Consent Fest mods for setting up this fest and being gems — a special thank you for being so understanding through this.   
>   
>  Warnings/Content Notes: As this is a medical fic, some serious illnesses are mentioned.

Harry wakes up on a scratchy carpet, feeling drowsy and cold. When he opens his eyes, there is a long, lean form staring at him from behind what seems to be a brownish sofa. Harry groans and reaches for his glasses, which are slightly askew, probably after being stepped on the night before. “Hi,” he tries, his voice still a bit hoarse.

“Hi,” the bloke answers dryly. Harry blinks a little and looks at the man standing in front of him. Pale blonde messy hair, gleaming grey eyes and an opened blue shirt revealing white skin. Even with the distinctive frown and impatient look he’s sporting, Harry finds him quite attractive. “Do you need help, or something?”

Harry sits up, yawning. “No, I’m fine. What time is it?” He looks around, searching for his wand. “Nice place,” he comments, taking in his surroundings. They’re in the open living room of a wide old-fashioned house, and from here Harry can see the kitchen, a hallway going further into the house, and a staircase leading to the upper floor. Boxes are scattered everywhere, most of them spilling clothes, books, and flatware.

“I’ve just moved back,” the bloke answers spontaneously, then scowls.

“Yeah? I’m just back from Cambridge myself,” Harry says while pulling on his trousers. “Where were you staying, before?”

The man sighs heavily, obviously quite irritated with Harry. “We don’t have to do this,” he snaps.

Harry scowls a little, trying to button his shirt. “Do what?” Harry says, sending a lazy smile his host’s way. That always works.

The bloke rolls his eyes and sighs.

Well, it _usually_ works.

“Look, it was fun, and you were a nice shag…” The bloke makes a vague gesture towards him, frowning.

“Harry,” he supplies helpfully. Harry grins to himself. They were so busy last night that they didn’t bother to exchange names when they met at the little wizarding bar one block away from St Mungo’s Hospital.

“Harry,” the man repeats with a curt nod. “Thank you, but I think now is the time for you to go.” Harry shrugs. The blond coughs and makes a shooing motion towards the door. “You’re going to make me late for work.” Harry stares, and Merlin, he needs a hangover potion or something, because everything seems to go in slow-motion, especially to his firewhiskey-drenched brain. “For fuck’s sake, do I have to throw you out myself?” the bloke snaps, throwing his hand up in the air.

Harry comes back to himself in a rush, feeling as if he was just slapped. “No, sorry. I’m just… It must be the hangover.” He rubs his eyes and shakes his head, trying to gather his thoughts. “Why don’t you go take a shower, and when you come down, I’ll be gone, all right?”

The blond nods, obviously relieved and slightly repentant. He goes for the stairs and stops, then looks at him suspiciously. “You’re not going to steal something, are you?”

Harry groans. “What do you take me for?”

The bloke looks him up and down, raising a doubtful eyebrow. “Well…”

“Don’t answer that,” Harry cuts off, and walks towards the main door, suddenly in a hurry to leave this place and this insufferable bloke behind.

“All right,” he says, looking away, slightly subdued. The sight of him, his pale blond hair falling onto his face, his features smoothed over and fragile, sends a shock of electricity through Harry’s body.

“Before I go,” Harry starts, his hand on the doorknob, and the vulnerability he inadvertently caught disappears, promptly replaced by mistrust and annoyance. “Would you mind telling me your name? I mean, such a nice shag,” he says with a saucy smile. “It would be a pity not to know what to remember you by.”

The bloke smirks and even lets out a short laugh. “Fine,” he concedes. “It’s Draco.”

Harry smiles widely. “Nice to meet you, Draco,” he says and leaves the house without looking back.

*

“You’re late,” Neville calls from the back of the locker room, scowling at him in good-natured reproach as he ties his shoulder-length blonde hair into a bun.

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry replies hurrying past a brown-haired bird in Healer robes who sends him an evil look. “You will not believe the night I had,” he adds with a smirk, and Neville shakes his head, giving Harry a big smile, displaying his slightly bucked teeth.

“Mate, you can go on about how you shagged that fancy bloke six ways into Sunday later, I want to be focused.” He bumps Harry’s shoulder with his own, pulling his lime-green Healer robes over his head and sliding his spelloscope around his neck. They suit his pale white complexion, and Harry internally grimaces when he thinks of how they will look on him — dreadful, if it’s anything like that brunette from earlier, her skin a stark brown against that horrendous shade of green. Why couldn’t it be emerald? Emerald looks good on Harry. It brings out his eyes. “Look at them,” Neville says, gesturing to the dozen of other interns, looking sharp and ready for action. “They are out for blood.”

Harry grins. This is going to be his competition for the four years to come, and he can’t wait to start. “I’m not worried,” he says confidently, grabbing his own gear, and Neville snorts. “Hey, you wouldn't happen to have some leftover Hangover Potion on you, by any chance?”

“You're a menace,” he says, but pulls one out of his shirt pocket. “I knew you'd need one after last night.”

“We _did_ celebrate the next step of our lives,” Harry answers, grinning sheepishly.

“Right,” he says, knowing when to let Harry off the hook. “I heard the Neuromagical Healer-in-Charge is a horror. They call him _McGreasy_ , can you believe that?”

“That sounds like a you problem, mate,” he teases. “I’m staying as far away from Neuromagical as I can,” Harry mutters, slightly bitter. “But you’ll be great at it, I’m sure,” he adds, smiling affably at his friend.

“I had a great mentor,” Neville blurts out, then smiles apologetically.

Harry’s father is one of the most talented Neuromagical Healers in the world, and he always had great hopes for his son. Unfortunately, Harry was anything but interested, especially since he and his father didn’t get along, and though he did pass on his obsession for Healing magic, Harry decided early on that he would go into Paediatric Healing instead of following into his father’s footsteps. James Potter had then turned his efforts towards Harry’s childhood best friend, Neville Longbottom. Things had been tense between them for a while back then, but he and Neville had come through. They always do; friendship like that doesn’t come around often.

For once, Harry had been happy that his father was such a rock star in the medical field — and thus always travelling around the world — because it meant that Neville would join him for their residency at St Mungo’s. It had been hard enough to split after Hogwarts and go through four years of Cambridge's Wizarding Medical School on his own while Neville had fucked off to Beauxbâtons’s Institute for International Magical Medicine where Harry’s father worked at the time.

But now, spending another four years in England’s most highly-rated hospital with his very best friend, working towards his life’s goal, and his father being sufficiently far away that he wouldn’t be breathing over his shoulder all the time, sounded like a dream come true. And he even got fabulously shagged last night. What could possibly go wrong?

“These are going to be the best years of our lives,” Harry says emphatically, clasping Neville’s shoulder.

Of course, that’s when the door opens to let in a tall, lean bloke with whitish blond hair. Their eyes lock, and Draco grimaces in disgust.

Harry sighs.

*

“So, you work here too?” Harry whispers when he manages to get close to Draco, who had been trailing behind because of his tardiness. “Funny coincidence, isn’t it.” When Harry thinks about it, it’s not that strange. They did meet at the unofficial St Mungo’s bar, after all.

Draco rolls his eyes and sighs. “Look, Harold—”

“Harry.”

“Harry,” he corrects with obvious fake intent, “Maybe it would be easier for you to think of last night as one of the many wet dreams you will no doubt have about me in the course of our residency. And while you do that, please forget it actually ever happened.”

Harry just stops in his tracks and stares dumbly, shell-shocked at the sheer rudeness of the man. A man he willingly had sex with; they even had had a charming conversation before that — but it might have been the firewhisky talking.

“You see, that look on your face?” Draco says with a half-disgusted, half-pitiful smile. “This is why it never happened, and definitely won’t happen ever again. Nice to have met you, Henry,” he says, pats Harry’s shoulder and joins the other interns on their way to meet their assigned resident.

“It’s _Harry_ , arsehole,” Harry grumbles and hurries down the hall to catch up with the others in the St Mungo’s reception hall.

“We’re with Grindelwald,” Neville whispers as Harry goes to stand next to him.

“Grindelwald? As in the Dark Wizard?”

Neville shrugs. “It’s a nickname. Maybe people are jealous, or something.”

The brown-haired girl from earlier snorts, fixing her top-knot braided bun. “Let me guess, you believe in Wrackspurts too?” she sneers, and Draco sniggers in the back. Harry is busy glaring daggers at her on Neville’s behalf when he finally places her: Padma Patil. She was in their year at Hogwarts, Ravenclaw, he thinks. Parvati's twin sister. He remembers his father setting him up with her for the Yule Ball in fourth year, because he wanted him to date a Desi girl. _“It's good to connect with people from our community,”_ he'd said. _“And I'm trying to convince her mother to fund my research lab,”_ he'd then confessed with his easy, dashing smile everyone loved so much. Harry had been so angry. He just wanted to stay with his mates, not lobby for his father's research. He had Neville, and the Gryffindor boys, and he didn't need his father to play matchmaker. He should meet up with them again sometime though, Dean, Seamus, Ron, and Neville. They haven’t seen each other in months, too taken with their own lives.

His internal monologue is rudely interrupted by Neville’s elbow hitting him in the side. Harry turns to complain, when he’s met with a angry-looking, red-haired white wizard sporting lime green robes. “Nice of you to join us, Healer…?” The man says, pushing his old-fashioned glasses up his nose, his brown eyes narrowing at Harry.

“Potter, sir,” Harry says in a low voice, trying is best to ignore the usual murmur that follows his name everywhere he goes in the medical field.

The resident raises his eyebrows and stares for a few seconds before going back to his list. Harry also catches Draco looking at him in surprise, but his features soon fade into disinterested neutrality. Even Patil’s eyes widen in recognition. He misses the days at Hogwarts when he was a nobody like everyone else. Neville gives him a small smile, and Harry gathers his focus. He’s here to work, after all, not chase after posh arseholes, or play child prodigy.

“I am Healer Percival Weasley, Chief Resident of St Mungo’s training program, and,” he takes off his glasses and wipes them with a handkerchief, and Neville takes the opportunity to incredulously mouth ‘Weasley’ at Harry. They definitely need to hang out with the gang, and get dirt on Ron’s older brother, whichever one it is. Harry always forgets how small the wizarding world can be. “I have five rules,” Weasley continues in a stern voice. “Rule number one, don’t bother sucking up. I already hate you, that’s not going to change.” He takes out his wand and levitates a bunch of handbooks and magical pagers. “Magical trauma protocol, Floo lists, pagers. Nurses _will_ page you. You answer every page at a run.”

They all grab their own gear, Draco jostling him in passing. Harry glares at him, only to be met with indifference. When he turns to look back at Weasley, he has already started to walk down the hall. “A run, that's rule two. Your first shift starts now and lasts 48 hours. You’re interns, grunts, nobodies, bottom of the Healing food chain. Run labs, write orders, work every second until you drop and don't complain.”

Weasley stops before a door and opens it. “On-call rooms, attendings hog them; sleep when you can, where you can.” He catches Draco smirking and adds, “Preferably, alone. Which brings me to rule three: If I’m sleeping, don't wake me unless your patient is actually dying.” Weasley turns to face them, crossing his arms over his chest. “Rule four, the dying patient better not be dead when I get there. Not only would you have killed someone, you would have woken me for no good reason. Are we clear?” Harry frowns and raises his hand. “Yes?”

“You said five rules?”

Weasley sighs, and Harry is pretty sure Draco calls him a dimwit behind his back. At that moment, their pagers start to ring. “Rule five,” Weasley calls as he hurries past them into the hallway towards the emergency room, breaking into a run. “When I move, you move!”

The bunch of interns start to run after him, and Harry grins. This, this is what he worked for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Spelloscope_ was Aibidil's idea.


	2. Chapter 2

As they burst into the magical trauma emergency room full of noise, of Healers and mediwizards shouting orders, Draco feels the adrenaline kick in, like a fire setting him ablaze. This, this is what he worked for.

“Annie Meyers, 24, got caught up in a potions lab explosion in Knockturn,” the mediwitch says quickly as Weasley takes over and rolls the gurney towards a trauma room. “Third-degree burns on her face and all over the right side of her body. Some deep cuts and a few superficial ones, and her left arm is broken. She might have internal bleeding due to the fall, and witnesses said she hit her head pretty hard.”

“Ms Meyers, I'm Healer Weasley and I'm going to take good care of you,” he enunciates carefully, trying to calm down the distraught patient. “Patil, Malfoy, you’re with Ms Meyers. Those burns need two sets of hands, and I want a full work-up,” Weasley commands sternly, assuming his orders will be followed. Draco respects that, even if he's a _Weasley_ , and his family has no social standing. “Longbottom, run the labs, and be quick about it. When you’re done, go be useful in the ER.” He looks at Potter with a disdainful twist of the mouth. “Potter, scut.” Yes, Draco definitely likes him. Weasley narrows his eyes at him, and Draco straightens up despite himself. “If you don’t want to join Potter on his merry journey to the Creature-Induced Injuries Division, you better not piss me off. And someone page Plastics!”

*

“How is Ms Meyers?”

Draco doesn’t look up from the arm he is cleaning burnt flesh from before he can apply burn-healing paste. “Diagnostic spells revealed no internal bleeding, but showed that the left arm is indeed broken. I ordered a _Brackium Emendo_ from Ortho, and cast a _Ferula_ in the meantime.” Patil clears her throat from the other side of the body where she’s busy cleaning Ms Meyers’s leg. “Patil did a _Tergeo_ to give us a better view of external injuries.”

“Anything else?” Weasley asks expectantly.

“I put her under a stasis, just to be sure, while we wait for Neuromagical,” Patil picks up. “I gave her 100 cc of Calming Draught an hour, to help with the burns.”

“And why didn’t you do the head and magical scans yourselves?” Weasley asks, training his gaze upon them. He _is_ a nasty thing, Draco thinks with a smile. Everyone knows, even the green interns, that the Neuromagical Healer-in-Charge is a pernickety sod.

“I thought I’d wait for proper supervision,” Patil replies diplomatically, not without sending a cheeky smirk Weasley’s way.

Weasley nods, and Draco thinks he catches the hint of a smile. “All right. Let’s wait for Healer Snape, then.”

*

“So, I guess McGreasy sent you to do scut with me, uh?” Potter taunts when he catches sight of Draco stepping out of a patient’s room.

Snape had indeed decided that Draco, Patil, and everyone in the room were incompetent, and promptly got rid of them. Then Longbottom had been thrown to the wolves and replaced them in the trauma room, and he’d gone with a smile on his face, the utter idiot. Though Draco is annoyed to be deprived of a potential surgery, especially when he did all the dirty work, he doesn’t care enough about Neuromagical to be upset long. What bothers him most is that the Healer-in-Charge of Plastics didn’t get a chance to look at Draco’s excellent work on the burns. In any case, Potter’s smugness does nothing to calm his nerves. Draco opens his mouth to say something scathing then stops, his eyes widening in horror. “Potter,” he says carefully, struggling not to gag. “Is that rectal gel on your cheek?”

Potter promptly blushes and wipes his face with his sleeve. Draco grimaces. To think he slept with _that_. “Merlin, you’re a disgrace,” he mutters, gathering his patients files.

“Wait, Draco, you—”

Draco sighs heavily. “ _Malfoy_ ,” he articulates distinctively. “It’s Malfoy, to you.”

Potter stops in his tracks and narrows his eyes at him. They stare at each other in silence for a while, and when Draco raises a questioning eyebrow, Potter answers with a dashing smile — well, more of a toothy awkward grin that Draco supposes was meant to be dashing.

Potter’s pager rings. “I gotta go,” he says, still sporting that easy, strange sort of smile. The kind only idiots and children can pull off, Draco thinks. “Don’t kill anyone without me, Malfoy!” he calls as he runs down the corridor.

Draco shakes his head and goes to see his next patient, his pile of charts floating behind him. The Creature-Induced Injuries Division is not the most interesting part of Magical Trauma, but it has the merit to provide the best anecdotes: just before he crossed paths with Potter, he had to pull a Grindylow off a woman’s arse. Draco winces at the memory. He pushes open door 1018, and nods at the emaciated seventeen-year-old lying in the bed. “Mr Chamberlain,” he says in a neutral voice, quickly scanning the chart, flinching slightly at the mention of _Veela_. “I see that you are having issues in the wing department.”

“Yes,” the patient says with a tired smile. “The Healers think it might be growing pains, but it’s been weeks, and it still—” He closes his eyes and grimaces. “It hurts a lot.”

Draco gives him a tight smile, dropping the chart on the levitating pile. He walks next to the patient and makes him bend slightly forward. Draco puts on his gloves and proceeds to palpate the patient’s back, being careful not to push too hard. He lets his hands feel the two uneven bumps, noting the red scarring and patches all around it. He can see the bony wings trying to get out, one curved bone starting to stick out of one of the bumps.

Draco steps away, gently pulls the patient’s St Mungo’s-issued shirt back on, and helps him lie down. “Mr Chamberlain,” Draco starts, a frown darkening his features.

“Titus,” the patient says, smirking. “Pure-bloods, am I right,” he adds, pointing weakly at Draco’s robe where his full name can be seen, written in shiny silver letters. Draco doesn't rise to the bait. He's not the kind of Healer who tries to bond with their patients, he tells himself.

“Titus,” Draco concedes. “Have you been taking magical hormonal suppressants lately?”

“Suppressants? I don’t take suppressants,” Titus says, scowling.

Draco can’t help but send him a condescending look. “You’re of age, anything you say to me is bound by the standard Healer’s Unbreakable Vow.”

“I’m not lying,” Titus says, as vehemently as he can, wincing when he tries to sit up. “I’m proud of who I am, I would never take suppressants!”

Draco’s face closes off. It’s just his luck to stumble upon a case like this, really. “Have you been spending some time with your parents lately?” Draco asks with a heavy heart.

Titus frowns. “Yeah, I graduated in June and spent the summer with them.” His eyes widen in fearful realisation. “Why?”

“I’m going to run some tests,” Draco answers quietly. He closes his eyes briefly and composes himself. “I’ll give you my Healer’s number, so you can page me personally if anything happens. All right?” So much for keeping his distance.

“All right,” Titus says, a noticeable lump in his throat. Draco turns to leave the room when the patient stops him. “Healer Malfoy?”

“Yes?”

“You have Grindylow slime on your shoulder,” he says, smiling.

Draco groans his thanks. He’s going to make Potter pay for that one, of that he’s sure. But first, he needs a power nap. Draco goes to the main desk of the floor and, as he files his patients’ charts, catches a nurse smiling at him. Draco smirks.

Sleep can wait.

*

Draco is busy giving his lunch the stink eye when Patil drops in the seat in front of him. She doesn’t say anything, just starts eating as she skims through her magical trauma protocol handbook. Draco looks around. The cafeteria is mostly empty. “What are you doing?” he asks rudely after a while, his face settling somewhere between appalled and confused.

Patil looks up from her own food with a raised eyebrow. “Eating,” she deadpans. “What does it look like?”

“I mean _here_ , what are you doing _here_ ,” he says, pointing frantically at the table.

She sighs heavily, drops her fork into her salad — if a few wilted leaves, wrinkled tomatoes and pieces of an avocado with alarmingly blackened edges can be called a salad — and stares him down. “You’re the least annoying person in this hospital, so I’d thought we could eat in silence,” she answers in a very matter-of-fact voice. “But you’re sort of ruining it,” she adds with a shrug, then goes back to her food and her book.

Draco can’t help but smile a little as he quietly goes back to his own ‘salad’. They enjoy precious silence for at least three minutes before Longbottom, quickly followed by Potter, decides to join them.

“Hey Patil, I heard you performed an unsupervised _Anapneo_ this morning,” he says excitedly.

“Did you, now,” Draco says, looking impressed despite his annoyance at the intrusion. _Anapneo_ is an easy spell, but cast badly, it can choke the target to death instead of helping them breathe.

“Was I supposed to let the patient die?” Patil says, mechanically turning another page of her handbook, not even gracing them with an annoyed look.

“And on your first day,” Longbottom says, nodding in appreciation.

“You’re definitely more fun than you were at fourteen,” Potter comments, smirking.

“Most people are,” Patil says in a bored tone. She eyes him derisively. “Too bad you’re not one of them.” Draco doesn’t bother to stifle his laugh, and neither does Longbottom, who clasps Potter’s shoulder in all too familiar way. Then it hits him.

“Wait, you all know each other?”

“Barely”, Patil deadpans at the same time Potter says, “Yes”.

“We went to Hogwarts together,” Longbottom supplies helpfully.

“Actually, it’s surprising that we don’t know _you_ ,” Potter adds snidely. “Are you secretly an old man, or a child prodigy?”

“I went to Durmstrang, you idiot,” he says, allowing himself to share a smile with Potter. Draco’s mother had wanted him to go to Hogwarts so he would be closer to her, but after the divorce, Lucius had moved to France, and Durmstrang had been the best compromise they could find. “So, you cast the spell, and then what?”

“The bloke survived, what do you think?” Patil says, but she’s smiling too. “And then Weasley gave me a dressing down about paging him immediately when something’s wrong with one of his patients.” She makes a face. “He cares a _lot_ about his reputation.”

Suddenly, their pagers all start to ring. “It’s Annie Meyers!” Draco calls, breaking into a run, promptly followed by his colleagues, leaving behind their half-eaten lunches without looking back.

*

“Healer Potter, if all you have to offer is incompetence, I suggest you move aside and let your betters work,” Healer Snape drawls, scowling dangerously, his crooked nose sticking out of his surgical mask, after Potter failed to answer a question. “You may have relied on your name before, but in my service, learning takes work.” Potter grumbles something incoherent, but steps away from the patient, immediately replaced by Longbottom who has stars in his eyes.

“I can’t believe I’m not down there,” Draco says, bending forward to get a better look in the Operating Room from the gallery. Snape didn’t need more than two interns, and Weasley had deemed Patil and himself unnecessary. They have been in surgery for the past eleven hours, and Draco has stopped by every once in a while to check on their progress — which is painfully slow and looking terribly boring, like every Neuromagical surgery. Snape is currently clipping Ms Meyers’s brain aneurysm, which had ruptured earlier and caused the emergency. Draco would never admit it out loud, but it had been terrifying to watch Ms Meyers seize in front of him. There was a big difference between learning about it in school and witnessing it first hand. Longbottom had been quick to cast a stasis and put her on her side, which was really why he was now in the O.R. with bloody McGreasy and Draco wasn’t. The woman also had a nasty brain bleed caused by the fall, and apparently some kind of leak in her magical cortex that had worsened due to the fumes of the combined potions during the explosion. Potter and Longbottom have spent eleven fucking hours staring at a brain, and Draco would almost do anything to trade places with them. He doesn’t even like brains, for fuck’s sake.

“Longbottom looks so smug,” Patil complains, and Draco finds comfort in their shared bitterness.

“Look,” Draco says with a laugh, “He’s wiggling his arse like a Crup’s tail!”

Patil snorts. “Oh Merlin, you’re right.” She shakes her head, smiling to herself. “Crup’s tail. That’s going to stick.”

“Agreed,” Draco says emphatically. “Want to lurk in the ER for something bloody?” he adds after a short silence.

Patil smiles wolfishly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

*

“You promised blood,” Padma says accusingly after checking that all the stitches on her patient’s arm are neat and clean.

“I never promised anything,” Draco groans, finishing his own stitch with a flick of the wrist.

For the past seven hours, they had done stitches, administered Hangover Potions, dealt with a patient with the Mumblemumps and a nasty case of green-thumb, and somewhere along the way Patil had become Padma, as anyone whom Draco has been puked on with should be.

Draco yawns, and casts a quick _Tempus_. “22 hours to go.”

“Slacking already?” Weasley says, coming out of nowhere, the sneaky weasel. “That’s too bad, I was going to ask you to scrub in with me on a massive Splinching.” He shrugs, and pushes his glasses up with his index. “But if you’re too tired already…” Weasley drawls, already walking away.

Draco and Padma share a look, and scramble to their feet, elbowing each other as they follow Weasley towards the lift.


	3. Chapter 3

“Potter, please do us all a favour and answer your bloody girlfriend — or I will,” Malfoy threatens, raising his chin dramatically as he leans back into the sofa, looking like he owns the place. Which he does, incidentally, as they have been crashing in his house for the past five weeks, eating pizza and takeaway Thaï food over books and charts, studying for the upcoming solo surgery, for which they are all competing against each other.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Harry grumbles, silencing his spellular with a flick of the wand, and taking the opportunity to Levitate the teapot towards his own cup.

“If you two are finished whinging, maybe we could get back to work?” Patil snaps, angrily patting the floor cushions she’s sitting on. Harry, a bit dazed by the memory of he and Malfoy making the beast with two backs on that very same cushion and carpet three months back, just nods and drinks his tea. Sounds of slapping flesh and deep moans come to his mind as he catches Malfoy’s eye. He doesn’t miss the glint of desire that briefly shines there before Malfoy reverts to snarls and glares. Two can play that game, Harry thinks, narrowing his eyes.

It had been three months since their first shift, and somehow, being stuck together almost all day and night trying to save lives had made them war comrades if not friends. Eventually, they started to hang out at Malfoy’s house more often than not, and Malfoy had ended up letting them rent the spare bedrooms. He’d said that he needed the money, but Harry is convinced that he just doesn’t like to live alone. Neville had been the first to accept, unwilling to spend another second with his grandmother, whom he loved very much, but who also never missed an opportunity to smother him. Patil had been reluctant, but she had also been avoiding her flat that she shared with her twin sister, who happened to be a gossip columnist for the _Prophet_ and loved to party with her friends in Patils’ living room. After a full week sleeping in on-call rooms and once on a gurney in the middle of a hallway, she had caved and moved into the room across from Malfoy’s. As for Harry, he hadn’t thought that the invitation had extended to him until Neville had informed him that if he didn’t move in by the end of the week, Malfoy would rent the room to a dermatology intern, and Neville really didn’t want to live across the room of a dermatology intern — or worse, share a bathroom with them. When Harry had asked about the intern, Malfoy had looked at him strangely, said “What intern?” and Harry had moved in.

“I don’t care about the appendectomy,” Neville says. “I just want to get my hands on an aneurysm of my own.”

“But, Crupstail, you’d have to be a good boy for your daddy to give you a treat,” Patil coos, sending Malfoy into a rib-holding fit of laughter.

“Come on guys, give him a break,” Harry says and Neville nods his thanks. “He’s been learning new tricks for McGreasy all week and kept being put in the doghouse. Don’t kick a Crup when he’s down.”

Neville throws a book at Harry’s face, which he dodges easily. “I hate you all, and I shall get the surgery just to spite you,” he groans, grabbing _Neuromagic: A Journey to the Depth of the Mind_ from the pile of books sitting on the table, and proceeding to ignore his friends. They all take it as a cue to go back to work. When Harry’s spellular starts to glow again, he turns it face down, and focuses on his own book, _Paediatrics: It’s Not Just About Downsizing_.

Paediatric Healers have a strange sense of humour.

*

Neville sighs, clutching the patient’s chart with a firm grip. “Harry, we’ve been friends for a long time, but if you don’t get out of the way, I—”

Harry snorts. “I’m not scared of you, _Crupstail_ , and this patient is mine. He’s barely eleven! It’s a Paeds case!”

“Don’t you call me that!” Neville says with a snarl, a strange look on his chubby, almost childlike features. “And besides, he’s been having seizures. It’s _Neuromagical!_ ”

“Paeds!” Harry grunts, pulling the chart to himself.

“Neuromagical!” Neville grits between clenched teeth, his eyes narrowed and fierce.

Harry moves closer, crowding Neville’s space, pointing a threatening finger at his friend, never letting go of the chart. Neville’s a runner, always has been since his school days, way before he’d found his confidence and Harry had grown enough bulk for the two of them to scare away wannabe bullies. “I’ve known you since you were two months old, I can call you whatever I want!” He makes a move to snatch up the folder. “Give me that chart!”

Neville steps away smoothly, taking the chart out of reach. “Harry, I swear, I will call your mother!”

Harry gasps, scandalised. “You wouldn’t!”

Neville looks at him with a sly smile. “Oh, but I would!”

“Remember that time I saved your bloody toad from being mangled by Granger’s cat?” Harry says, grabbing the chart, still held hostage in Neville’s greedy hands. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Neville looks thoughtful. “I did love that toad,” he concedes. “But I want this more!” he adds vehemently, pulling the chart closer to him, and Harry with it.

“Excuse me,” the nurse says — it’s the nice one with the ponytail who always has candy in her pockets, Hortense, Harry thinks. But Harry ignores her because he has to get that patient’s file and worm himself into the Paediatric Service, even if he has to pull it from the cold dead hands of his best friend to do so. “ _Excuse me_ ,” Hortense says again, and they both turn to look at her, angry and frustrated.

“What?” they grunt in unison.

She flinches slightly and narrows her eyes at them. Harry thinks they both lost their sweets privileges for the foreseeable future. “Your patient,” she says with a strangely satisfied tone. “Healer Padma Patil left with him.” Hortense walks away, grumbling about stupid disrespectful Healers, but Harry doesn’t have time to reflect on his actions, or on his future candy-deprivation; he has a deadly revenge to plot.

“I vote for cursing her hairbrush,” Neville says in a low voice, sharing Harry’s thirst for pay-back.

“And her toothpaste,” Harry concurs, staring darkly at the empty space where their patient used to be.

Neville nods emphatically, bumping fists with Harry without looking. “Definitely her toothpaste.”

They stand next to each other in a somewhat embarrassed silence.

“You wouldn’t have called my mother, right?” Harry asks, narrowing his eyes at his friend.

“I guess you’ll never know,” Neville says with an enigmatic smile.

Harry snorts. Who needs enemies when you have friends like that.

*

“What do you mean Titus Chamberlain checked out?” Malfoy screams at the nurse, his face scrunched up in anger. “Who discharged him? Who?!”

“Wanna take it down a notch?” Harry says roughly. The nurse’s pager rings, and he takes the opportunity to flee. Harry doesn’t blame him. He looks green, it’s probably his first week, and Draco Malfoy is not known for his patience. “You know, yelling at nurses won’t get you anywhere.”

“I know perfectly well how to charm nurses, thank you very much, _Potter_.” Harry hates it when Malfoy spits out his name like that. Except that, of course, he doesn’t.

“So I’ve heard,” Harry grumbles, thinking of the rumour mill going about Malfoy and his many paramours. Neville has even caught him getting it on in a closet with that pretty Orthopaedics resident, Chang. And Harry refuses to think about the noises he sometimes hears coming from Malfoy’s bedroom. In any case, they don’t leave much to the imagination.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Malfoy snarls, narrowing his eyes at him.

Harry shrugs. He’s honestly torn between the urge to pick a fight — he always has a fight to pick with Malfoy — and just letting it go; after all, he lives with the bloke now. “Nothing,” he says, going for nonchalance. And then, because he apparently can’t help himself, “You know what they call you, right?”

Malfoy frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Harry snorts. “ _McEasy_ ,” he spits out nastily. “That’s what we call you.”

Harry watches in a strange mix of horror and satisfaction as Malfoy’s nostrils flare, and Merlin, doesn’t he look ready to pounce on him, and not in a good way. Malfoy clicks his tongue and walks briskly towards the staircase, shoving past Harry, leaving him with a bruised shoulder and a sinking feeling of shame.

“This is going to be one of those days,” Harry comments darkly to himself, feeling absolutely _perky_.

*

Patil opens the ajar door and stares at Harry, who is dejectedly sitting on the floor of his patient’s loo. “What are you doing?” Patil demands — there is no other word for her authoritative tone. The difference is, Harry now knows that it’s just the way she talks to other people. When he’d ask about it — because he’s a stupid, stupid man sometimes — she’d glared and said that he should try going through life as the smartest person in the room and still being asked to go fetch tea or called pet names by men who thought they knew better. Since then, Harry has been careful to use “assertive” instead of “authoritative”, at least when he speaks out loud.

“What does it look like?” Harry grunts, pointing at the loo with his wand. “I managed to get into Medusa’s service, but she assigned me this kid who swallowed Chess pieces because he’s a sodding sore loser.” He looks down at the seat, sighs, and proceeds to Levitate one of the floating lumps as he casts a screening spell to check for Chess pieces. After four hours of poop checking and sassy remarks from the wretched child, he’s _this_ close to hoping for an intestinal occlusion.

“Guess you should be careful what you wish for,” she says, almost sympathetically. “Well, good luck with poop duty — I, for one, have a surgery with Weasley for that patient you let slip through your fingers this morning.” Patil grins widely then, and Harry wants to punch her stupid face. “And guess what? Medusa’s scrubbing in…” she sing-songs at him as she walks backwards to the door.

Harry throws a pack of compresses at her face, and misses.

“This is not a good day for you,” the patient says, in that smug, know-it-all tone twelve-year-olds master so well.

“No,” Harry says, defeated. “It really isn’t.”

*

“Why, isn’t it the precious Golden Boy, gracing us with his presence?” Malfoy drawls, arms crossed over his chest, his mouth twisted into an ugly smirk.

“Look Malfoy, I’m sorry for calling you that earlier, all right?” Harry says in a low voice, as he sits between Patil and Neville, right across from Malfoy.

“What, you mean when you basically slut-shamed me for no reason while I was concerned about one of my patients running off against medical advice?” The git says loudly enough that every person in the vicinity seems to turn and glare at Harry. Neville and Patil are definitely looking at him in obvious disapproval.

Harry sighs heavily, starting to get annoyed. “Do you _like_ making me look like an arse?” he snaps. “Well, do you?” he insists when his first outburst is only met with awkward silence and pitiful looks.

Malfoy gives him a sympathetic smile. “You want me to say ‘no’, right?” he says, his voice dripping with smugness and condescension.

Harry groans, and leans back in his chair, pushing his tray of food angrily across the table. “You’re a small and bitter man, Draco Malfoy,” Harry spits out, aiming for an acerbic tone, but coming across as put-out.

“Like a human espresso,” Patil deadpans, shoving a forkful of Greek salad in her mouth. Obviously, Malfoy starts laughing, and Harry sighs, mourning the days when he still had some inkling of credibility.

*

Marvin Connors — the Chess-Pieces Eater — eventually _gets_ an intestinal occlusion, and though Harry feels bad for him, he is thrilled to scrub in with Healer Narcissa Black for the first time since he’s started his internship at St Mungo’s. She is cold, haughty, and possibly prejudiced on some level from what Harry’s heard, but she is also fucking talented and skilled, and Harry wants to marry her and her specialty.

Even though the surgery is quickly dealt with, Harry is knackered and wants to go back home and crash on his bed as soon as possible. He doesn’t want to think too long about the fact that the house of a bloke he once shagged, possibly despises, and keeps fighting with on a regular basis, is now the closest thing to _home_ in this city. He doesn’t want to think about the endless missed calls on his spellular either, and even less about the fact that there’s another home he could go back to, if he wasn’t such a petulant child sometimes.

Instead, Harry buries himself in work and helps Neville deal with a pack of drunk teenagers who managed to snatch firewhisky from their parents’ liquor cabinets, and then started to cast sparks and giggling spells in Muggle London, before they got hit by a car. They aren’t badly hurt, thank Merlin, but they _are_ causing a bloody ruckus in the ER, and Harry is legally obligated to call the Department of Intoxicating Substances so they can send someone from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol to handle the situation and call the parents. As someone who has done their fair share of shenanigans during their teenage years, it’s not something Harry relishes.

When Harry Apparates on the steps of Malfoy’s house at 10pm, already half-asleep, he doesn’t expect to see a tall red-headed woman standing there, wearing deep navy-blue robes, and peeking through the windows of Malfoy’s kitchen. She turns towards him when she catches the familiar _crack_ of Apparition, and smiles. It’s a radiant smile, full of love and happiness, but it quickly fades when the woman realises that Harry has taken a step back and is this close to make a run for it.

“ _Haripreet James Potter_ ,” she growls, and Harry freezes, feeling cold sweat pooling in the back of his neck. “Don’t you dare try to run from me,” she says in a warning tone. “And come hug me this second,” she orders firmly, opening her arms. 

Harry bows his head down and steps into reaching distance, subdued. She embraces him tightly, smelling his hair a little like she always does when she hasn’t seen him in a while. Harry sighs and lets himself surrender to the warm, loving embrace.

“Hi, Mum.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Spellular_ is from Howlr by Partialtopotter.


	4. Chapter 4

“Can you please stop hitting on my mom?” Potter asks, somewhat frantic, after pulling Draco in the kitchen in a failed attempt at being discreet, leaving Padma and Longbottom to fight over the last slab of meat at the dining table.

“Why, Potter,” Draco drawls, a wolfish smile on his face. “Are you _jealous_ by any chance?”

“What? No!” Potter splutters, his cheeks turning a reddish colour. “Just… Please stop?”

Draco makes a show of looking thoughtful, but really, even he isn’t that heartless, especially when Potter looks so flustered. “I’m not flirting with her,” he says. “I’m just naturally charming, not that you’d notice.” Potter raises an eyebrow at that, and Draco wants to punch himself. He sniffs haughtily and tries for a dignified exit, straightening himself and raising his chin high as he goes back to the dining table, and pretends he doesn’t hear Potter whisper, “Maybe I do”.

“So, Lily,” Draco says as he sits at the end of the table. “Can I call you Lily?” he adds with a dashing smile, throwing a cheeky glance at Potter who just sighs as he drops into a chair next to his mother, and takes another serving of mashed potatoes. “What brings you to my humble home?”

Lily Potter smiles quietly, carefully dabs her lips with a napkin, and judging by the knowing look she bestows on him, Draco doesn’t think for one second that she doesn’t see right through him. “Well, my son has been avoiding my calls for a week, and I think it’s nice to remind him once in a while that you don’t teach old Crups new tricks.” She sends a pointed look Potter’s way. “Especially when your kid is known to have running tendencies.”

“Mum!” Potter says indignantly, and Draco grins from one ear to the other.

“ _Really_?” he asks with intent, perching his chin on the back of his hand. “Do tell.”

“Mom, don’t—”

Lily’s grin widens and she fully turns to face Draco. “Well, when he was six, his father and I refused to let him have a pet Kneazle,” she starts, and Potter goes purple. “He packed a backpack, yelled at us that he was leaving and never coming back, tried and failed to slam the door behind him and walked for three blocks before he came back crying because he forgot his safety blanket.”

Draco thinks he might be half-hard from Potter’s sheer humiliation .

“But we weren’t worried, he used to do that once every other week,” she says carelessly, and Potter looks outraged. “The first time, of course, he scared us to death,” she amends, patting her son’s hand gently. “Which is why I cast a permanent Tracking Spell on him and can find him even if he avoids my calls,” she adds and slaps Potter’s hand with a wicked smile.

“Lily, let me just say,” Draco starts and ignores Potter’s pointed glares, “you are so very welcome to stay here as long as you want.” He gives her his best smile. “As long as you feed us more of these delightful stories, of course.”

Potter stands up abruptly. “Mum, a word?”

Lily rolls her eyes and winks at Draco. “Sure.”

“You’re a terrible human being,” Longbottom says and Padma snorts.

Draco grins and gleefully bites into his steak. “Thank you.”

*

“What’s got your wand in a knot?” Padma asks when she finds Draco curled up on a gurney in a deserted hallway, angrily shoving crisps into his mouth.

“The Head of Plastics and ENT hates me,” Draco complains.

Padma hops next to him and steals his crisps, but Draco is too wrapped up in his own misery to snap at her. He spent the whole week in Minerva McGonagall’s service, and the woman just looks down on him every chance she gets. If he’s honest, he’d hoped that if his skills and natural charm weren’t enough, his family name would at least smooth things over — but Draco had hit a hard wall. And Draco isn’t used to not getting things his way. He doesn’t know yet how he feels about it.

“I’m sure she doesn’t,” Padma says matter-of-factly.

Draco turns towards her, eyes wide, interrupting her mid-crisp. “She said I’m too demanding and act like a know-it-all when I’m just a sprog in scrubs.”

Padma carefully eats her crisp, and shrugs. “Okay, maybe she does hate you.”

“Thanks,” Draco grumbles, snatching back his crisps.

The hallway door opens, admitting Potter and Longbottom. 

“Ugh, I hate my life!” Potter groans, a tad too loud in Draco’s opinion, sprawling next to Draco, his elbow digging into Draco’s ribs.

“Not you too,” Padma sighs.

“He’s been complaining non-stop,” Longbottom comments tiredly.

Potter looks at Draco from under his lashes and jerks his chin at him. “What’s your problem?”

“Healer McGonagall.”

Potter sighs. “Well, my problem is Medusa.” He scrambles to a sitting position, and snags the bag of crisps. He eats some, and soon his chin is sparkled in crisps’ crumbs. It’s disgusting, and Draco sort of wants to lick them off his skin, which is even more disgusting.

“What’s wrong with her?” Draco asks with a yawn. He always gets sleepy when he’s angry. His mother used to make fun of him, because he would always fall asleep within minutes of a tantrum when he was a kid.

“What’s wrong with her?” Potter scoffs. “What’s not, you mean! She’s a total and utter bitch, that’s what’s wrong with her!” Padma glowers in warning, but Potter is too taken in his rant to notice.

“Well, I’ll be sure to tell her that over Sunday brunch,” Draco drawls, finding comfort in making Potter sweat.

“Yes, you do that— Wait, what?”

Potter looks at him with wide, shocked eyes, and Draco can’t resist having him on. “Sunday morning. I’ll see her then.”

Frustration, anger, confusion, and possibly a hint of jealousy, pass over Potter’s features. “Oh Merlin, you’re sleeping with her, too?”

Draco’s face closes. It seems it always comes down to this, when Potter’s concerned. “I share a morning meal with her every Sunday,” Draco says, his face carefully composed. “You can draw your own conclusions, I’m sure.”

“Fuck, Draco,” Potter says, and Draco is taken aback by the hurt tone in his voice. “Sleeping with attendings… It’s your career. Maybe McGonagall knows, and that’s why she’s giving you a hard time, you know.”

He sounds almost like he cares, and that alone makes Draco’s chest constrict. He clears his throat and tries for a smug smile. “I don’t think so, Potter, she’s—”

“I don’t care what she is, I’m sure you don’t need to sleep around to be acknowledged as a Healer!”

Draco snorts, unsure if he should be flattered or offended. “Potter, will you just listen? I’m having brunch with her every Sunday morning because she’s my _mother_.”

Potter’s face relaxes. “Oh,” he says flatly. Then he lights up like a bloody Yule tree. “Oh,” he says again, grinning like a loon. Suddenly, he turns green, no doubt realising what he’d just said about Draco’s mother. “Oh.”

Draco bursts out laughing. “It’s all right, Potter. You didn’t know, and my mother can be… uptight.”

“More like she has a broom up her—”

“Don’t push it,” Draco cuts in sternly.

“Sorry,” Potter says again, and Draco tells himself his smile doesn’t make him melt on the spot. He doesn’t have the luxury to entertain those kinds of thoughts.

“Having fun?”

They all jump on their feet at the sound of Weasley’s voice. “Don’t you have work to do?” he says, scowling, and steals Draco’s crisps from Potter, who gives them a last mournful look. “Scram!” Weasley grunts, and they leave without further ado. They may mock him behind his back, but the truth is, they’re whipped, and Weasley knows it.

*

Draco has been lurking in the pit for a good case for the better part of the afternoon, passing the time by practising his stitching technique — he prides himself in his ability to leave little to no scarring — when Titus Chamberlain comes through the door of St Mungo’s, distraught and looking the worse for wear. Draco promptly finishes his last stitch and grabs Padma as she walks by.

“Can you discharge my patient for me?” he asks, frowning.

“I’m not your house-elf,” she scoffs and starts to walk away.

Draco stops her, grabbing her arm. “Please,” he says urgently, meeting her eyes.

“All right,” she says cautiously, slowly freeing her arm from Draco’s grip.

Draco nods and rushes to meet Titus, who is wobbling towards the check-in desk. The nurse extends her hand to give him a chart to fill, but Draco grabs it from her. “I’m his Healer,” he says authoritatively.

Titus smiles, looking weak and relieved to see him. “Healer Malfoy,” he greets him. “Guess you were right, in the end.”

“I always am,” Draco says darkly. “What were you thinking, getting discharged like that?” he asks, herding Titus towards an exam room. Titus just shrugs and follows him. He sits on the chair and lets Draco casts a series of diagnostic spells, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. “Take off your shirt, please.” Titus does, and Draco pulls out his spelloscope. “Take a deep breath,” he asks, and winces at the low wheezing sound Titus makes. “I’m going to put my hands on your shoulder blades, is that all right?” Titus nods, subdued. Draco has a feeling that the only reason Titus is so quiet is because he is in tremendous pain, which is quickly confirmed by the barely contained hiss Titus lets out when Draco feels the reddened and scarred bumps on his back, even though he is being cautious. Draco takes a long, deep breath and forces himself to look amenable and confident. “I’m going to admit you, and we’re going to take care of you,” he says, his voice firm and unwavering. “And no more running behind my back,” he warns, and Titus cheekily winks at him.

At least, he still has his spirit, Draco thinks dejectedly.

*

“What was that?” Padma asks when she catches him waiting for Titus’s lab results.

“Nothing,” Draco says, tapping his fingers on the counter impatiently, ignoring the glaring wizard behind it.

Padma gives him a sobering look. “Yeah, right.” She pinches his neck, like a bloody hawk stalking its prey. “Spill!”

Draco smooths his neck, grumbling, but eventually pulls her aside and casts a Silencing Spell around them. “That patient…” Draco shakes his head, struggling to keep his composure. “He’s a Veela. Partly, at least.”

Padma narrows her eyes at him. “So? Do you have a problem with that?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Look, I know I’m not the most accepting person, but this isn’t about that.”

She nods. “Keep going.”

Draco closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “He’s a Veela… And so am I.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “Oh.”

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Draco snaps. “I suspect his parents — pure-bloods, obviously — have been feeding him suppressants all summer, and now…” Draco shakes his head, his face twisting in anger. “You can’t mess around with magical hormones like that, without a proper follow-up. It fucks you up. I think he might have wing cancer.”

Padma looks uncomfortable, and Draco knows she must be torn between her genuine empathy and her utter inability to make a public display of affection. “Draco,” she starts, but he cuts her off.

“It’s fine.” He gives a bitter laugh. “It’s just that last time he was here, he was left to rot in the Creature-Induced Injuries Division without a second thought. Wizards don’t understand Veelas well, and they’re not really interested in getting educated.”

Padma crosses her arms over her chest. “What do you want to do?”

“First, I’m going to get these labs and know for sure,” Draco sighs. “Then, I’ll have to beg Potter to hand over the case to my mother without her knowing about it.” Padma raises a curious eyebrow. “What? You think she’s scary here? Imagine dealing with an overprotective Medusa at home!”

Padma snorts. “You know that’s fucked up, right?”

Draco shrugs. “You get used to it.” 


	5. Chapter 5

“Malfoy, really?” Neville asks, shoving a chip into his mouth. “I mean you always had weird tastes, but this one takes the hat.”

Harry sighs, throws a dart on the target on the wall, and misses. _Magic Joe’s_ , the unofficial St Mungo’s bar, is one of Harry’s favourite places in the neighbourhood despite its tacky name. It’s not big, always crowded, the floor’s cleanliness is debatable, and the Butterbeer isn’t as cheap as it should be, but it’s familiar and homey, and Harry likes it. He grabs a handful of pistachios and then takes a swig of his Fishy Green Ale, shaking his head lightly at the uncanny taste.

Neville makes a face at Harry’s drink. “Very poor taste indeed.”

Harry laughs. “It’s not unlike Muggle Bubble Tea, you know.”

Neville shudders. “Except it’s _fish eggs_.”

Harry shrugs and steals one of Neville’s chips. “I don’t see how fancying Malfoy is bad taste, though. I mean, sure, he’s not the nicest bloke around—”

Neville chokes on his Butterbeer. “That’s the understatement of the year!”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Well, I like them a bit mean, you know?” He frowns, and takes another swig of his ale. “I get bored otherwise.”

“Even if bickering with him is basically foreplay to you,” Neville starts and Harry throws a pistachio at him, “there’s no guarantee that it’s like that for him.”

At that moment, the door opens and Malfoy and Patil enter, sniggering to each other. He looks handsome with his hair slicked back, wearing a burgundy roll-neck and black robes. Their eyes meet, and Malfoy manages to sneer while still looking at Harry like he would make the perfect dessert. Harry snarls at him, and Malfoy smirks.

Harry shoves another handful of pistachios in his mouth. “I think he likes them mean too.”

*

Harry walks into St Mungo’s, clutching a cup of coffee in each hand. He spent half the night mulling over his options, and after calling his mother this morning, he’s convinced he has to be the one to make the first move, if only because he can’t stand the thought of hearing Malfoy banging someone else in the next room one more time. Malfoy is at the front desk, frowning over a patient’s chart, making furious little notes in the margin. Harry approaches, affecting a casual posture. He greets the man behind the desk, and silently pushes the coffee towards Malfoy — who doesn’t notice him or the coffee, too taken with his angry scrawling. Harry thinks he likes that, it shows dedication — or so he tells himself. He sighs.

“Good morning,” Harry says as neutrally as he can manage.

Malfoy looks up, eyes wide and slightly red. “Potter,” he says, surprised. He blinks and stares for a while, then smiles. “You’ve come just at the right time,” he says, starting to look more alive.

“I did?” Harry asks, at loss in the face of a quite amenable Malfoy.

“Yes,” Malfoy says decisively, shoving the patient’s chart into Harry’s arms, who almost spills his own cup of coffee. “I need you to convince my mother to take this case, without telling her you got it from me.”

Harry frowns and gives a suspicious look at the file. “Why?”

Malfoy groans in frustration. “She will be impossible if she knows I’m invested,” he starts then comes to a halt. He puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder and smirks knowingly. “And you wouldn’t want me to scrub in in your stead, right? Because she will definitely request me if she knows I’m involved.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says, smiling to himself. “Tell me about the patient.”

For half a second, Malfoy’s face lights up and it’s such a sight that Harry feels like he can’t breathe. The moment is soon gone, and Malfoy has already schooled his features into purposeful concentration.

“Titus Chamberlain, 17-year-old male who recently came into his Veela inheritance,” Malfoy says, and Harry thinks he catches a hint of unease when he brings up the Creature heritage. “He has just been diagnosed with Stage 3 wing cancer.” Malfoy’s face darkens. “He doesn’t know yet. I had to do more in-depth tests, and I only got the final diagnosis this morning.” Malfoy looks away, a deep crease between his eyebrows. “I think his new Healer should tell him. He needs consistency, and I can’t...”

Harry may be oblivious sometimes, but he’s not blind, and he can see how much Malfoy cares for this patient. He doesn’t want to dwell on what seeing Malfoy so worried and worn-out does to his heart, so he just nods vigorously. “I’ll make sure it’s Healer Black’s top priority,” he says, even though he has no idea how he’s going to bring this to Medusa without being turned to stone.

At his words, Malfoy’s face lights up again. He grabs Harry’s shoulder and squeezes. “Thank you,” he says warmly and walks away, leaving Harry dumbstruck with a new patient and two cold cups of coffee.

*

When he bursts into the ER, Malfoy all but pounces on Harry. “Why did you page me? Is Titus all right? Did my mother take the case?”

Harry lets out a chuckle, but straightens himself under Malfoy’s angry gaze. “Mr Chamberlain is fine and has been admitted into the cancer ward,” Harry says, omitting the fact that he basically signed himself up to be Narcissa Black’s house-elf, what with him already answering at her beck and call, handling her post-ops and morning rounds every day, and now also discharging her patients, fetching her coffee, and bringing her clothes to the pressing.

“That’s fantastic!” Malfoy says with emphase and _hugs_ Harry. He quickly steps away, though, looking confused about his own actions. “Why did you page me, then?” he asks, reverting to his composed mask.

Harry smiles. “I got something for you.” Malfoy frowns, suspicious, but follows Harry into an exam room. Harry opens the door with gusto, grinning excitedly. “So, what do you think?”

On the bed is lying a young woman in her twenties. She is perfectly fine, except for the beak standing proudly in place of her mouth and nose. “What…?” Malfoy starts, then his eyes widen in understanding. “Unstable Metamorphmagus?” he asks eagerly.

“Indeed,” Harry says smugly. “Snatched her before someone paged Plastics. She’s all yours.”

Malfoy turns sharply towards him. “What are you playing at?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, raising his hands in defense.

He narrows his eyes at him. “Did you break something at the house?” he gasps. “Did you touch my Greek vase? You know _Reparo_ doesn’t work on it!”

Harry lets out a frustrated groan. “I didn’t touch your bloody vase for fuck’s sake!”

Malfoy stops fussing and straightens himself. “Well, good. I like that vase very much,” he says haughtily.

“I know,” Harry grumbles. 

They stand in silence, staring at each other.

“Don’t you have things to do?” Malfoy asks with raised eyebrows, gesturing towards the door.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

“Thanks,” Malfoy calls as Harry walks away, muttering insanities into the void.

*

“Malfoy,” Harry calls as he drops his bag in the vestibule. He takes off his shoes and calls again, louder. “Get your arse down here!” Harry’s had enough. He spent the day trying to woo Malfoy with subtlety, but it didn’t seem to work. Harry doesn’t know if he’s going about this the wrong way or if Malfoy is being dense, but he needs to know.

Malfoy eventually hurtles down the stairs, looking mussed and definitely not in a good mood. That’s all right with Harry; He likes Malfoy better when he’s being annoying anyway. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks rudely. “I met your mother, I know you weren’t raised in barn, you have no excuse for being such a—”

“Shut up,” Harry says, shaking his head in disbelief and smiling despite himself. Really, Malfoy is such a prat, and it shouldn’t be allowed to be so arousing.

“How dare you?” Malfoy says, utterly ridiculous in his outrage. Harry can’t help it, he just starts to laugh. Surprisingly enough, Malfoy seems to quiet down. “You’re something else,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest, a hint of a smile on his pursed lips.

Harry crosses the distance between them, thinking that maybe, Malfoy likes it better when Harry’s being annoying too. “You’re insufferable,” he says fondly. “I’ve been trying to get your attention all day.”

Malfoy lets out an undignified huff. “Well, you drive me nuts. And you know, regular people just buy flowers instead of hunting sick people.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of bloke that would swoon over a bouquet,” Harry says, shooting Malfoy a winning smile.

Malfoy shrugs, smirking. “I like chocolate, though.” Merlin, he doesn’t seem surprised at all. He must have enjoyed watching Harry making a mess of himself all day.

Harry laughs gingerly and slides a wandering blond strand behind Malfoy’s ear. Malfoy looks away, blushing. “I really want to kiss you right now,” Harry says in a rush, feeling his cheeks heat, too.

“Well, no one’s stopping you,” Malfoy says, still looking purposefully anywhere but at Harry.

“You git,” Harry laughs, and draws Malfoy closer, feeling his warm breath on his own lips.

“Right back at you,” Malfoy whispers and kisses him.


	6. Chapter 6

Draco nibbles Potter’s earlobe as he gets rid of his own shirt while Potter is busy unbuttoning Draco’s trousers. He can feel the heat coming over him, leaving behind an euphoric sort of feeling. “Yes,” he moans when Potter slides his hand beneath his pants, breathing hard on Draco’s neck. Draco walks backwards towards the stairs, pulling Potter with him. As it turns out, climbing stairs while fumbling with another’s man shirt is not an easy task, and they promptly fall down in a messy laughing pile. Draco is pleased to see that it doesn’t deter Potter, who seems very keen on sucking a bruise down Draco’s throat. Draco rolls them over, and they both start to remove their trousers, laughing a little and sharing knowing looks.

“For fuck’s sake, Malfoy!” Padma says, slamming the front door behind her. Draco squeaks, scrambling to pull his pants and trousers up, purposefully ignoring Potter’s helpless laughter between his legs. “If you don’t Apparate your white arse out of my sight immediately, I swear I’ll hex your balls off. And don’t think this doesn’t apply to you too, Potter!”

Potter immediately stops laughing and sends a worried look at Draco, who rolls his eyes and Apparates them to Draco’s bedroom, thinking that he will definitely get back at Padma for this most unwelcome interruption. In the meantime, he has a Potter to shag.

*

“Hi,” Potter says, pushing a coffee cup towards him on the front desk of the cancer ward.

“Potter,” Draco nods, grabbing the cup. They haven’t talked yet, and Draco isn’t sure he wants to. As long as whatever this is remains unlabelled, Draco can delude himself that he’s not doing anything wrong.

Potter gives out a good-natured sigh. “You could call me Harry, you know.”

“I know.” Draco grins mischievously. “Potter.”

Potter rolls his eyes and grabs a patient chart from behind the desk. “About Titus Chamberlain...” Draco crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Potter, expectant. “He’s taking the news as well as possible, but we’re worried that he lacks a proper support system. The treatment is going to be tough, and Healer Black doesn’t feel comfortable going further without someone to take care of him. He’s reaching out to friends and extended family.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Draco says. “He’s here _because_ of his family.” He wishes he could have a talk about that with his mother, but he knows it would only cause more trouble. For himself, for her, for Titus… Maybe even for Potter.

Potter shrugs. “We’ll start with surgery to remove the tumours and help the wings sprout, then potion treatment to regulate the hormones and prevent the cancer from spreading.” Potter flips a page on the chart. “Then, magical therapy to help the wings resume their regular growth, and a course of magical radiation to get rid of the cancer.”

Draco frowns. “That’s quite heavy.”

“It’s an aggressive cancer,” Potter says quietly.

“I know,” Draco sighs. He runs a hand through his hair, breathing in deeply. “I know.” He hates this, this feeling of powerlessness. Draco feels the turmoil of emotion simmering inside him slowly taking over his body, and knows he has to put a stop to it before it comes to a boil.

“Draco…” 

“Come with me,” Draco says roughly, grabbing Potter’s arm. He looks around and shoves Potter into the closest on-call room.

“What are you doing?!” Potter says, looking indignant.

“What do you think?” he says with a hoarse voice, grabbing Potter’s face with both hands and kissing him with need.

Potter moans softly into the kiss. “I don’t think…”

Draco twists Potter around and slams him against the door. “Shut up,” he says and starts to kiss his neck.

“Draco,” Potter protests weakly, his hands running along Draco’s sides with growing urgency.

Draco pulls away long enough to meet Potter’s eyes. “Please,” he says, trying to ignore his pleading tone. “Can we just—” Draco closes his eyes, hating the emotion in his voice.

Potter brings him closer and kisses the spot behind his ear, the first of a long, soft kissing trail going from his neck down his chest. “Yes,” Potter whispers breathlessly against Draco’s skin. “Anything you want,” he says, locking eyes with Draco for a moment before he grabs him by the hair and pulls him into a heated kiss.

*

Draco wakes up in a rush, sweat pooling down his neck. He looks around, eyes wide, desperate to control his breathing. Potter is lying by his side, naked, the sheets pooled around his waist, giving Draco an eyeful of smooth brown skin. He lets his fingers trail down Potter’s soft abdomen, runs them through the coarse hair of his chest and happy trail. He matches his own breathing to Potter’s, and soon enough, Draco can breathe properly again. Potter moves slightly in his sleep, reaching for the comfort of Draco’s arms. He seems so pure and peaceful it almost hurts Draco to look at him. He doesn’t know if he finds Potter’s freely shared vulnerability enticing or despicable. 

He remembers their first time, almost six months ago, and the way Potter had curled up against him on the carpet, giving himself to Draco’s embrace without a second thought. He hadn’t had the heart to kick him out then, or even move to his own bedroom. So he’d just stayed there and contemplated this man, floored by the trust he would show to a stranger, until he couldn’t take it and had to move as far away from Potter as he could. And now that Potter isn’t a stranger anymore, it’s even worse, because Draco would like nothing more to give himself to Potter like that. To let himself go, and see what would happen. Draco clenches his fists. Unfortunately, it’s not something he can indulge in. Not now, not ever, and especially not with someone he’s starting to care about.

Draco slowly slips out of the bed, pulling the sheet over Potter’s warm body. He grabs his clothes and dresses quickly before leaving without a sound. He doesn’t leave a note. As soon as he closes the door, someone taps on his shoulder, making him nearly jump out of his skin.

“What are you doing?” Padma deadpans, and not for the first time, Draco wonders how she can look at you with such a neutral face and still make you feel like something is crawling under your skin.

“I’m going to pick up the labs for one of McGonagall’s cases,” he says, a hand still over his chest in an attempt to calm his heart.

She narrows his eyes at him. “What case?”

Draco sighs. “Magical facial reconstruction after a misaimed _Reducto_ that hit the patient in the face,” Draco says quick as a flash.

“Really?” She asks, in a tone that suggests he isn’t fooling her. “I’d like to see that. What’s the patient name?”

Draco smiles smugly. “Helen Gireford, 34, room 4034 on Spell Damage floor.”

She grins. “Fine. I’ll come with you,” she says, going for the lift. Draco shrugs and follows suit. Once in the lift, she shoots him a knowing smile. “I bet there is a shagged-out Potter in that room, isn’t there?”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Draco says with a smirk.

*

“You left.”

Draco looks up from his paperwork to find a put-out Harry Potter looking at him, arms crossed over his chest. “Great deduction skills,” he deadpans and returns to his notes.

Potter smashes his hand on the parchment. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Draco looks at him and feels his heart tighten at the mixture of anger and anguish clouding Potter’s features. “Look, Potter—”

The ER doors smash open, letting in two mediwizards rolling in a gurney carrying a screaming kid on her side. “Trauma coming in!” someone yells. Potter and Draco share a meaningful look and hurry towards the patient.

“Maggie Filsberg, eight, caused a massive explosion due to her accidental magic in a Muggle area,” the mediwitch says urgently. “Multiple burns, potential magical haemorrhage and brain injury, and definitely magically unstable. No broken limbs but you’ll have to check for internal bleeding.”

“Hortense, page Healers Weasley, Black, McGonagall and Snape,” Potter says to the nurse as he starts to cast the diagnostic spells. “Hi Maggie,” he says in a calm voice to the still screaming child. “My name is Harry. I know you’re very scared, but I’m right beside you. You have to stay very still and on your side so you don’t make it worse, okay?” He takes her hand, maintains eye contact, and keeps talking until her screaming recedes. “Draco, can you get us more information? I need to —”

“Go,” Draco cuts off. “I’m on it.” Potter nods his thanks and disappears into a trauma room with the kid and the mediwitch. “Where are the parents?” Draco asks the other mediwizard.

“Muggles,” he answers darkly.

“Muggles? Why did you bring the kid here? You know we can’t treat Muggles.”

The mediwizard pulls out a parchment signed by the Head of the Brigade for Improper Use of Magic. “This is a special derogation. The parents will be here soon with Magical Law Enforcement Patrol and someone from the BIUM.”

Draco frowns. “What happened?”

“The kid was beaten up by Muggle kids for being a freak, and her accidental magic acted out. Three Muggles were almost killed, both the BIUM and the Patrol decided the kid couldn’t be left unmonitored for another couple of years. She almost drained herself dry.”

Draco thanks the mediwizard and pages both Padma and Longbottom. They’re going to need all hands on deck.

“Maggie?” A woman says with a screeching voice. “Where’s my daughter? What’s happening?”

Draco grabs a nurse. “This is Mrs Filsberg,” he says quickly. “Muggle, her daughter has been brought in as an exception because she’s a danger to herself and other Muggles. Find a Mind Healer and keep security around in case she acts out. You never know how these Muggles will react to us,” Draco says bitterly. The nurse frowns at him but does what he asks while Draco joins Potter in the trauma room.

“Hello Maggie, I’m Healer Malfoy,” Draco introduces himself. “I’m going to take a look at those burns, all right?” 

“I want my mom…”

“Your mother just came in,” Draco says soothingly. “She’ll be here soon, but we have to take care of you first, yes?” The little girl nods slowly. “Good, you’re being very brave.” Draco removes with delicate fingers the protection the mediwizards had put on her flesh and examines the wounds. He sighs. This is going to be painful. “Can I get 100cc of Calming Draught please?”

Weasley opens the door in a rush, followed by Healers McGonagall, Snape, and Draco’s mother. “Fill us in,” Weasley commands after casting a Silencing spell around them.

“Diagnosis revealed no internal injury besides a lot of bruising,” Potter starts. “I went ahead and did a magical scan, there’s a nasty magical haemorrhage. Her accidental magic is all over the charts, she’s really unstable.”

“Extensive burns on the back, arms, and legs, minor ones on the face and chest. I believe she curled up into a ball and protected herself as best she could. The head scan also revealed a minor brain bleed. I think we should put her under a temporary Sleeping Spell to avoid another incident. She’s very scared, and it seems fear is a strong trigger for her.”

Snape’s face had gone white when Potter had mentioned doing the scan himself, but Draco’s mother had quelled his anger by a sobering look. “I’m taking the lead,” Narcissa says. “Potter, you’re doing the work-up and book an OR. I’ll check with the parents for the Sleeping Spell in the meantime.”

“The parents are Muggle,” Draco says. “I paged Muggle Liaison, and a Mind Healer is coming down soon.”

Snape scowls and casts a series of complicated spells Draco has never seen before. Longbottom and Padma finally join them, looking out of breath. “Patil, monitor her magical beat and keep her stable. “Longbottom, maintain the stasis I put on the magical haemorrhage. If anything changes, you stop it, _then_ page me. And next time you’re late, I’ll have you suspended.” Padma and Longbottom nod dutifully, and Padma starts casting the monitoring spells.

“Malfoy,” McGonagall says after casting her own set of spells. “You’re on burn duty. Start now with the easier ones, and you’ll get onto the nastier part when she’s under. Keep me posted.”

“As soon as we have the green light from the parents, we’re scrubbing him. Make sure everything is ready,” Draco’s mother says sternly before going out, promptly followed by the other Healers, leaving Draco alone with his friends and the distraught patient.

“This is going to be a long night,” Padma says.

*

“Please hold!”

Draco pushes the button and regrets it immediately when Potter comes in. A heavy silence settles between them.

“Are you—”

“I’m taking care of McGonagall’s post-ops.”

Potter sighs. “I’m heading to the OR. I’m scrubbing in on Maggie Filsberg.”

“Is she—”

The door opens, letting in two Healers. Draco and Potter move to the back of the lift, forced into each other’s proximity. Draco can feel Potter gently brushing his fingers with his own, and he wants to pull his hand away, but he doesn’t.

On the next floor, the intruders get off.

“Draco—”

Draco turns and grabs Potter’s face, kissing him soundly. He lets his hand run through his hair as Potter clutches desperately at Draco’s robes. He indulges in the kiss, overwhelmed by the scent of Potter’s skin, the feel of his lips. He pulls away, breathless. “Draco,” Potter whispers, sounding hoarse.

The door opens, and Draco leaves without a word.

*

Draco opens the door, followed by Potter, Padma, and Longbottom. They slowly walk into the kitchen and sit themselves dejectedly at the table. Longbottom grabs a dish of lasagna from the pantry and removes the Conservation Spell before casting a Warming Charm. Padma Levitates plates and cutlery, and they start eating, still silent. They look like Inferi, Draco thinks. Sleep-deprived, morose and worried, too worn-out to even share pleasantries. They spent the last seven hours trying to save that little girl’s life, and now there’s nothing to do but wait to see if she manages to get through the night. This is the hardest part of the job for Draco. The waiting. It makes him want to scream at the heavens or fall asleep and never wake up. Merlin, he hates feeling this helpless.

Once they’re done, Draco sends the dirty dishes to wash themselves and climbs the stairs heavily. Potter is hovering in front of his room, and Draco just doesn’t have the strength to talk, fight, or even deflect with sex. He just wants to sleep and hope his problems will have disappeared by morning.

“Potter, I don’t…”

“Can we just sleep?” Potter asks, his voice wavering. “Please? It’s been a hard night.”

Draco sighs and looks at Potter from under his lashes. He yearns for the warmth of his arms, the comfort of his trust. It’s all an illusion, of course, but maybe he can indulge for the night. Just one more night.

Draco opens the door to his room and extends a hand towards Potter. He takes it, and they walk together to the bed, sticking close as if it could somehow ease the worries of the night. They climb onto the bed and under the covers, facing each other.

“Will you hold me?” Draco whispers in a shaking voice.

Strong arms wrap around him and Draco closes his eyes, relishing in the safeness of Potter’s embrace. For however long it may last.


	7. Chapter 7

In the morning, Draco is gone. Harry goes down the stairs and finds Neville and Padma sitting in the kitchen in a grim silence. “Where’s Draco?” Harry asks, still drowsy from sleep, as he slumps on a chair, Levitating his breakfast from the cupboards to the table.

“Left at dawn,” Neville grumbles, poking an angry-looking egg.

Harry sighs and takes a bite of bread when the knife has finished buttering it. They eat in a comfortable silence. Padma leaves first, then Neville. Looking at the grandfather clock in the hall, Harry decides he has time to take a shower. As the water slides down his body, he tries to shut down the feeling of panic that has been simmering in his gut since the day before. He doesn’t understand why he’s so attracted to Draco, but that’s the way it is and he doesn’t regret it. Harry feels like something is growing between them, something small and precious, and all Harry wants to do is foster it and let it grow stronger — but Draco keeps pulling away from him, and Harry is clueless as to what he’s supposed to do about it.

Harry steps out of the shower. He looks at himself in the mirror and wonders what Draco might find attractive in him. His hair is a mess and sticks out, his eyes are too narrow, his eyebrows too bushy, his nose is too flat. He lets his hand run down his abdomen and squeezes the softness there. Harry swallows nervously. He’s pondering going back to bed to hide under the covers when his spellular starts to ring, reminding him that he has a job to do and can’t afford to laze around. Harry leaves the bathroom, grabs his clothes, and Apparates near St Mungo’s about ten minutes later.

He asks Hortense if she has seen Draco as he tries to tame his hair that is all mussed by his Healer robes, but she hasn’t. Harry goes to the pit, fills patients’ charts, heals a few cuts, and helps an old lady to the lift, but he doesn’t see Draco there either. He checks the time, then his pager, and runs to the Paediatrics Ward to check on the kids before lunch. He plans to visit Titus last so he can have a bit more time with him, but the little girl in for a Vanishing sickness loses an arm and Harry stays to distract her until her parents come back from their break. It’s hard, seeing their tired faces watching desperately as their child slowly disappears into thin air, knowing there isn’t anything to be done about it. Harry exhales deeply, takes notes on the advancement of the disease and sets the kid as Healer Black’s top priority for the day.

When he walks into Titus’s room, a tall and uptight couple is standing next to his bed. They are wearing pristine black robes with matching pointy hats. Their pale faces turn towards him as one, and Harry has to repress a shiver.

“Mr and Mrs Chamberlain?” Harry asks politely, discreetly checking how Titus is dealing with their presence. He is not allowed to throw them out unless Titus asks him to, but Harry is determined to take a nod or an anxious look as implicit consent.

“What have you been doing to our son?” Mrs Chamberlain asks, narrowing her tiny black eyes at Harry.

Harry puts on his best professional smile and is about to ask Mr and Mrs Chamberlain to please wait for Healer Black when he hears Draco’s signature derisive snort behind him.

“Treating him for what you did to him,” Draco says before Harry can do anything about it.

“Healer Malfoy,” Harry starts, looking at Draco pointedly.

“I just have one question,” Draco continues, ignoring him. “When you decided to force your child to take magical hormones without him knowing, did you know that you were risking your son’s health and _life_ , or did you just intend to make decisions about his body without his consent?” Draco snorts again. “Great parenting in any case, that’s for sure.”

“Healer Malfoy,” a much more authoritative voice comes from behind them before Mr or Mrs Chamberlain can throw a fit. Harry turns to see Narcissa Black standing in the doorway, her mouth set in a tight line and flashing murderous looks at both Draco and Harry. “Please step out of the room. You are not on this case and are no longer allowed to approach this patient.” Harry watches in silence as Draco’s face turns an angry shade of purple. “Is that clear?” Healer Black asks, tilting her chin up in a warning gesture.

Draco smiles curtly, cheeks still puffed and plum. “Very clear,” he says and shoves past Harry, his eyes throwing daggers in all direction.

Healer Black turns sharply towards Harry, who immediately feels sweat pooling down his neck. “As for you, Healer Potter, I’ll deal with you later. For now, I expect you to deal with young Mr Hoggard, a new admission with a severe case of spattergroit.” She sends him a nasty smile. “I hope your vaccines are up to date.”

*

“Draco,” Harry calls out breathlessly, chasing a white-blond head through St Mungo’s maze of corridors, only to find that it’s a second-year resident and not Draco sodding Malfoy. Harry sighs, feeling like he’s been running around all day trying to catch his one-night-stand turned rival turned flatmate turned friend turned… He doesn’t know exactly what Draco is now, but he sure is _something_ , and quite a handful of it.

Harry goes back to the Paediatrics Ward, resolving to face the spattergroit patient with a smile. He spends an hour there, making conversation and spreading ointment on pustules until a few explode and release a jet of viscous and odorous pus on his face. Harry calmly excuses himself, hands over the case to the nurse, and manages to wait a full minute before throwing up on the floor out of the patient’s sight. He Vanishes the mess under the watchful eye of Hortense — who still hasn’t completely forgiven him for being rude to her awhile back — and heads to the staff showers. He’ll take a Preventive Potion with lunch, but he needs to clean himself first. Vaccine or not, spattergroit is disgusting, the stench is barely tolerable, and Harry bloody stinks.

After his blissful shower, Harry is intent on finding his elusive blond menace and have it out with him, but his stomach is howling like a Crup in heat — and so he heads down to the cafeteria. There he finds Neville fighting with the tomatoes and salad of his sandwich; Padma giving the evil eye to what appears to be cheese and onion soup with unappealing croutons; and, finally, Draco staring at a full plate of eggs, spinach, and rice, an angry crease between his eyebrows.

“Hey,” Harry says smoothly — or at least tries to — as he sits across from Draco, whose only sign of acknowledgment is a grunt.

“You have something in your hair,” Padma says with a disgusted twist of her mouth, and Harry hopes he hasn’t been strutting around with spattergroit pus in his hair or something.

“It’s just a lint,” Neville says, plucking it unceremoniously. Harry sighs in relief, his pride free to fight through another day.

“Draco, can we—”

“I have a patient,” Draco says abruptly, walking away with his barely touched food tray.

“What did you do?” Padma asks sharply, squinting at him.

“Nothing!”

Padma shrugs, unconvinced. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

And maybe it really is, Harry thinks.

*

Harry lies on one of the scratchy beds in an on-call room, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. When his spellular rings, he jumps to a sitting position and grabs it. “Mum?”

“I got your message, sweetheart. What’s going on?” she asks, her voice soft and soothing.

Harry sighs, running a hand over his face. “You remember Draco, right? The bloke I live with.”

“Your boyfriend, you mean?”

Harry blushes. “What? No!”

He can almost picture her rolling her eyes and smiling affectionately at him. “I know you as if I’d borne you.”

“Mum!”

“Indeed,” she says.

Harry lets out a defeated groan. “I don’t know what to do.”

“An apology is always a good start. Your father usually does something ridiculous too, making me laugh until I’m mellowed enough to forgive whatever stupid thing he’s done, but I don’t think it would work on your Draco.”

Harry scoffs. “Dad always tries to get away scot-free.”

His mother sighs lightly. “Don’t be so hard on your father, Preet. You and he have more in common than you think.”

“Don’t call me Preet,” Harry grumbles.

“Just apologise, Harry,” his mother says. “Apologise, say you’ll be there if he wants to talk, and then give him some space.”

“But—”

“Some people need more space than others, what works for you doesn’t necessarily work for him,” she cuts in sternly.

Harry frowns, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. “I know, Mum. I know.”

“I wouldn’t worry, though.” Harry can hear the smirk in her voice. “He’s obviously crazy about you.”

“You don’t know that,” Harry says, though he can feel a pleased blush spreading on his cheeks.

“A mother always knows,” she says, like she always used to when Harry was a child and questioned her.

Harry sighs, feeling better already. “Thanks, Mum. I love you.”

“I love you more.”

Harry turns off his spellular and lets himself fall back on the bed. He doesn’t know how he will manage to keep his distance from Draco when all he wants to do his bury himself in his arms, but he’ll find a way. After all, it’s worth it if it doesn’t make Draco run away from him for good.


	8. Chapter 8

Draco has been pacing in front of Titus’s room for half an hour, pondering what to do, when Mr Chamberlain appears, Harry by his side, holding two cups of St Mungo’s sour coffee. When Mr Chamberlain turns to look at him, disgust twisting his features into a mask of hatred, Draco feels like the walls are crumbling down around him. Harry is talking to him, frowning in concern, but he can’t hear him. There’s a throbbing sound in the background, and Draco is overwhelmed by the thumping beat of his heart, so much that soon it’s the only thing he can hear. He tries to remain standing, but everything is suddenly so blurry he can’t find anything to grab onto. Draco tries to speak, but his throat is blocked, and he can’t breathe.

When he thinks he’s going to collapse, a sudden rush of acid fury is blazes in his chest. His back starts to hurt, he feels his face tighten, and from the alarmed look in Harry’s eyes, he knows his features are changing. The flesh of his cheeks, nose, and eye sockets is sinking back into his skull, a dark shade filling the hollows of his eyes. The skin of his mouth stretches into a thin translucent line showing ghost-like teeth. He knows he [looks](https://longagoandohsofaraway.files.wordpress.com/2013/05/tumblr_mlh76nx3wm1s8k1duo2_r3_500.gif) like a grim reaper, his righteous anger like a scythe ready to take heads.

All the frustration and not-so-repressed anger he has piled up ever since he met Titus, all the shame and fear he has ever felt because of his Creature inheritance, all the resentment and bitterness at a loneliness of his own making — it all turns into a violent scream as his wings [spring out](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/lostgirl/images/e/e4/413_Valkyrie_Tamsin.gif/revision/latest?cb=20141102105105), battling ominously, making Mr Chamberlain and Harry step back.

“Draco!”

Draco turns sharply, his wings fluttering with vigilance. His stance slightly softens when he sees his mother, and she takes the opportunity to Stun him. The last thing Draco sees before everything turns black is Harry’s ashen face looking over his body.

*

“Come in,” Draco says briskly when he hears a shy knock on the on-call room’s door. He’s been slowly coming to his senses for the past twenty minutes, his head and back aching in too many ways for him to keep count. The last thing he wants is to have a conversation, but he loathes the idea of constant knocking even more.

“Hi,” Harry says, slipping into the room.

“Hello,” Draco answers quietly. He knows what happens next, he’s lived through it time and again. A pang of hurt strikes him unexpectedly — he’s not used to caring, not that much. He looks away, barely able to keep the shame off his face. This is all a disaster of his own making really. Draco should have known better than to indulge in this ridiculous love affair. He always knew it wasn’t real, but some part of him desperately wanted what he shared with Harry to be genuine.

“Look… Can we talk?” Harry asks, ever the diplomat.

Draco snorts. “You don’t have to do this, Potter. I know the drill.” Harry frowns, and Draco has to give him that he does play the confused and lost act well for someone who is about to run for the hills. “We’ve had our fun, but the Golden Boy has to move along now, doesn’t he?” Draco takes pride in his scathing tone — he may feel small and shattered inside, but he manages to sound derisive and uncaring. Harry’s eyes widen in surprise, and Draco decides that it’s his cue to leave. He stands up in one flowing movement and smooths his hair back casually. He knows how to play this part. “I was getting tired of you anyway,” he whispers as he brushes past Harry with a disdainful smile.

As he marches down the hall, ignoring Harry calling out to him, his pager rings. He sighs and heads towards the residents’ lounge to face Weasley. He braces himself for a dressing down, but Weasley calmly asks for his St Mungo’s badge as he suspends him for a week, warning him that there won’t be another chance if he blows the next one. “Take the week, calm yourself, and come back as a Healer, not a thunderous entitled brat,” he says, aiming his piercing eyes on Draco. “It’s not unusual to have a break down once in a career,” Weasley continues, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You just had yours early,” he adds, his tone heavy with admonition. Draco nods, placid, and once he leaves the premises, he Apparates directly home.

That’s when Draco realises Harry still lives with him, and throws his fist through the front door. “Fuck,” he mutters, fumbling with his wand to open the wards. He drops his outdoor robes to the floor and climbs the stairs two by two before slamming his door open. He flicks his wand towards the record player that starts to play an angry song by the Weird Sisters as the pillows explode in a flurry of feathers, the flower pots are blown into pieces, and the cupboard’s door pulls out of its hinges.

Ten minutes later, Draco is sitting on the floor by his bed, contemplating the mess he’s just made of his room, smothering a yawn. He drags the covers down, nestles himself into them on the floor, and closes his eyes.

*

Draco wakes up to a soothing hand petting his hair. For a moment, he hopes it’s Harry, but the fragrant smell of oranges and flowers speaks of his mother.

“Hello,” she says, smiling down at him. Draco rubs his eyes and sits up against the bed. His mother looks at him affectionately, her blond hair flowing freely on her shoulders. She strokes his cheek with her thumb, wiping off the dried tears there. “You’ve had quite a tantrum,” she comments, looking around with a raised eyebrow.

Draco snorts. “That’s a way to put it,” he says and shuffles closer to her. When she raises her arm, he curls up against her chest, and she resumes petting his hair. “I’m sorry I messed up at work.”

Draco’s mother shakes her head, her hair tickling Draco’s cheek. “I know you’ve been upset about this for a while. I’ll deal with it, you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

Draco shrugs. “Weasley basically told me he wasn’t a man to give a third chance.”

She straightens up next to him. “Well, maybe you should remind him that if anything happens to my son’s career…”

Draco laughs. “I can see it, ‘my mother will hear about this, Weasley’, I’ll say like a twelve-year-old and lose every ounce of credibility I have left.”

“Don’t be smart with me,” she chides with a half-smile.

“That’s how you raised me,” he says cheekily. She laughs and holds him closer, kissing his forehead, and it makes Draco feel warm and safe. “Mum?” he asks in a small voice.

“Yes, dear?”

“Harry knows now.”

“I believe that is a safe assessment considering the little display you made,” she says with no judgement.

“I’m so scared he’ll leave now,” Draco admits, his voice broken. “Like Father did with you.”

Narcissa pulls away and stares him down with a strange look in her eyes. “What on Earth are you talking about?”

Draco frowns as he straightens up, facing his mother as he crosses his legs. “When I was nine, Father left you because he realised it was the Glamour that made him love you,” Draco says. “Didn’t he?”

Narcissa runs a hand over her face with a deep sigh. “Oh, Draco, no.” She strokes his cheek lovingly, giving him a slightly broken smile. “Your father didn’t leave because of my Veela Glamour. We loved each other sincerely. He left because I threw him out.”

“You did _what_?”

“He wanted to put you under suppressants as soon as you reached sixteen to avoid your Creature change. I refused to do that to you. This isn’t how I wanted to raise you.” Draco feels like the world has been tipped over. “I want you to be proud of yourself, of who you are. Your father loves you very much, but if you and I are not the most inclusive people in the wizarding world, it was worse with him. Lucius grew less and less accepting as he aged.”

“But… I thought… Doesn’t the Glamour make people care for you against their will? Wasn’t that the reason he left?”

Draco’s mother pulls him in a fierce embrace. “Sweetheart, no,” she says, holding him. “The Glamour only makes people keen to like you. That’s it.”

Draco frowns. “You mean that they are just well-disposed towards me?”

She smiles. “Exactly.”

Draco feels his heartbeat quicken. “So Harry really does like me?”

“Oh my little dragon,” she says, her voice full of emotion. “Of course he does. How couldn’t he? You’re perfect. My perfect boy.”

Draco feels the tears on his cheeks before he feels them in his chest. Narcissa holds him close for a long time, until the tears dry and Draco falls asleep in her arms.

*

Draco accompanies his mother down the stairs when Harry, looking rumpled and tired, comes through the front door. Narcissa kisses Draco’s cheek and crosses the distance between the stairs and the door with a haughty look about her.

“Be there at five tomorrow,” she says. “I’m watching you,” she adds in a low voice, and Draco can see Harry swallow nervously.

“I’ll be there,” he says, looking right into Draco’s eyes.

“Good,” she says with a curt nod and Disapparates.

Draco and Harry look at each other in silence, Harry still close to the door and Draco halfway down the stairs, when Draco bursts into tears. Harry closes the distance between them quickly and catches him in his arm. “I’m here,” he whispers in his ear. “I’m here.”

Draco buries his face in his neck and lets himself be held.

*

Draco and Harry are sitting on the swing bench on the terrace, a light shawl thrown on Draco’s shoulders. Harry pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket. “I didn’t know you smoke,” Draco says.

“My uncle Sirius gave me some.” He chuckles. “Nasty habit, it drives my father mad.”

Draco wonders if it’s the same Sirius who was scratched off his family tree. He decides not to ask and smiles instead. “So you keep doing it.”

Harry looks at him, his eyes crinkling at the corner. “Exactly.”

“Let me try,” Draco asks, extending a hand expectantly.

Harry looks surprised but nods. Draco takes a long drag and barely coughs, which earns him an admiring look from Harry. They share the cigarette in silence, sitting close to each other, arms brushing. Harry takes Draco’s hand and squeezes lightly. Draco squeezes back.


	9. Chapter 9

“So what was all the fuss about?” Neville asks, shoving a forkful of cake in his mouth as he looks down at his textbook, his Muggle highlighter hovering over the page.

“I think he was just scared you know? He went on about how he would understand if I wanted to leave and all,” Harry says, fumbling with his own piece of cake.

Neville frowns. “Because he’s a Veela?”

Harry nods. “Yes.”

“What did you say?”

Harry sends his friend a mischievous smile. “I told him he was being and idiot, and then kissed him stupid.”

Neville rolls his eyes. “That’s so bad, even for you.”

“I’m okay with that,” Harry says, leaning back against his chair. “I think we’re fine now though,” he adds more seriously. “He invited me back into his room and we —”

“Say no more! I live with him! I pay him rent!” Neville cries, putting his hands over his ears.

“Seriously though,” Harry says, frowning slightly. “He was really upset. We talked most of the night, and he was really worried about how I might be impacted by it all.”

“How so?”

“He thought that the Veela Glamour was _making_ me like him.”

Neville raises an eyebrow. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I know!” Harry says, raising his hands in the air. “But it’s sort of sweet that he was concerned that I could feel violated or forced into it because of the Glamour.”

“Well, he didn’t seem to mind before you knew about it,” Neville says, scowling.

Harry’s mouth twitches. “That’s less sweet, yes.” He sighs, running a hand through his unruly hair. “I think he was just insecure though. He did try to stay away at first, you know.” Harry grins proudly. “I was quite insistent.”

“Aren’t you always?”

“You bet I am,” Harry says and fist bumps Neville.

*

“Interns,” McGreasy says in his monotone voice, overseeing the bunch of Healer Interns in St Mungo’s hall. “I was unfortunately burdened with the task of picking the less incompetent idiot amongst you.” He sighs, looking utterly bored — and possibly dead inside in Harry’s opinion. Harry doesn’t know all of the interns personally, so he hopes that if he doesn’t get the surgery himself, it will be one of his friends who does. “Though your performances are all abysmal, some of you are less likely to kill their patient in surgery.” Harry holds his breath, and as his eyes lock with Draco’s, he feels another kind of trepidation coming over him. Somehow, at this moment, being an ordinary bloke in love feels like the most special thing in the world, whatever his father might think of it, and he realises he doesn’t care either way if he gets the surgery. Because he got Draco, and that makes him feel special in ways his job could never do.

“The solo surgery will be performed — under my supervision — by… Healer Padma Patil.” Harry starts when Padma actually whoops in glee. She promptly resumes her controlled demeanour when Healer Snape eyes her scornfully. “But, in the light of his unexpected competence in my own field, I decided to offer a research grant to Neville Longbottom as well.”

Harry turns to congratulate his best friend when he notices he’s about to burst into tears. Snape sees it too and looms closer, his robes swooping behind him like an unspoken threat. “Don’t make me regret this, Longbottom,” he whispers, and Harry can see that, according to Neville’s glimmering eyes, Snape’s foul breath might as well be Amortentia.

*

“Hello,” Harry says, opening the door to Titus’s room. “Hello,” he repeats more sweetly when he notices Draco, in his regular clothes, sitting next to Harry’s patient. “I come bearing good news.” Titus grabs Draco’s hand, and it makes Harry’s heart warm. For the past five weeks, Draco has been visiting Titus every day. He contacted a social worker to help Titus keep his parents away, and then helped him find an affordable lawyer to get an alimony from them as well. They also managed to get the parents to pay all the medical bills thanks to Draco's, Harry's, and Healer Black’s testimonies in court.

“Do tell,” Draco says impatiently. They have been waiting for this for so long now, Harry feels privileged to be the one to tell them.

“You are officially in remission, Titus. We’re —”

Harry isn’t able to finish his sentence before he finds himself with an armful of Draco.

“Are you serious?” Titus asks with glee.

“Yes,” Harry says, pulling away from Draco. “As I was saying, we’re going to see you once a week for a while, but you’re free to go to your new home and settle.”

Draco turns to Titus, beaming. “I’ll have your room ready by tonight.”

Harry frowns. “I’m sorry, what?”

Draco looks at Harry, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Did I forget to mention that we’re getting a new roommate?”

Harry sighs. “We don’t have any room left, Draco.”

It’s Titus’s turn to grin. “Yes, you do.”

Harry shakes his head in confusion. “What are you two talking about?”

Draco’s cheeks turn red. “Well, I thought that it was time that I finally cave and allow you to move into my room,” he says, getting even redder.

“I see,” Harry says, grinning too. “I guess we do have a free room, then.”

Draco beams. “Brilliant.”

*

“To the end of one hellish year!” Harry says, clinking his glass of butterbeer with his friends’ own drinks.

“No more ridiculous tasks,” Padma says.

“No more stitches. Ever,” Draco adds.

“No more mopping the floor with what’s left of our pride and self-worth,” Neville says.

“Neville!”

“Seriously, mate!”

“What’s wrong with you Longbottom?!”

“All right, all right!” Neville says, grinning and raising his hands in surrender. “No more grovelling!”

“Cheers!”

They all take a large sip and start laughing, feeling exhilarated. They’re full-fledged Healers now, and all of life is in front of them. They party together until the wee hours of the morning, even though Neville passes out on the table sometime after midnight. Harry is pretty sure he sees Padma leave with Weasley, but he’s really drunk and he doesn’t want to know. He gets home with Draco, each one of them holding one of Neville’s arms, and they drop him to sleep on the couch after casting a monitoring spell on him just to be sure.

Harry and Draco drag themselves up to their room, careful not to wake up Titus, who has been working like mad to get into a Wizarding Medical School specialised into Creature Healing in Norway, where they are much more accepting of them. They slip into their room, whispering and kissing and laughing, being so much louder than they think they are, and let themselves fall onto their bed, reaching for each other almost immediately in a fierce embrace.

*

“Are you happy?” Harry asks, a few beads of sweat still on his brow as he runs his fingers over Draco’s bare chest.

“I am,” Draco answers, turning to face Harry and pull him closer. “Sometimes I feel like I’ll always be as long as I’m with you,” he says, nuzzling his face into Harry’s armpit.

Harry laughs and pets Draco’s hair. “Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”

Draco smacks him on the arm. “Don’t make fun of me, I’m drunk and in love!” he says indignantly.

Harry grabs his face and kisses him. “As long as we are in love, I’m fine with anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note on approach to consent:** There are unfortunately many ways to violate one’s body and mind. Consent is a tricky thing, and I wanted to put in perspective different sorts of consent — from medical to sex and everything in between. In this fic, Draco believes Harry is not fully consensual and it’s eating away at him — but he doesn’t stop because Harry doesn’t show any sign of _not_ giving consent. On the other hand, Harry doesn’t feel like he was raped or violated in any way because he always consented to everything that transpired between them, even if he didn’t have all the information. Sometimes, people have different ideas about what counts as trauma and what doesn't. Sometimes it’s the reverse. I wanted to explore how we experience consent on a daily basis — when you agree to let someone into your home, to let a doctor take your blood, and so on — and how any intrusion can be devastating... As long as they are experienced as such.


End file.
